Sherlock's Return
by peachringsandbananas
Summary: Sherlock has been gone for years now, and John Watson is fine. Really. But will he think the same after Sherlock returns under interesting circumstances? No one would have guessed he would return at a huge party, and certainly not while wearing a mask. Sorry, I'm really bad at summaries. Johnlock.


Sherlock Holmes was dead.

But that was okay.

John Watson could do fine without him.

"Lovely party, isn't it, John?" Molly wandered over to where John was hiding behind the long tables of food, lifting her mask from her face a few inches as to offer him a reassuring smile. Everywhere John went, people took such special care to include him; probably in fear that John was close to taking that leap as Sherlock had years before… But he wasn't. Despite the obvious pain Sherlock's death had brought him, he was determined to move past it. If he could survive Afghanistan, he could certainly survive the death of a man he had barely known for a yeah…

"Yes, it's quite nice…" He gave a curt nod, hoping the prying red head would leave him be, and just as always, she did. It wasn't as if he didn't enjoy the company, it was just as soon as someone talked to him, they brought up Sherlock and the assault of "are you okay?" and "how can I help?" questions, to both of which he had no answer. He wasn't exactly 'not okay', but he wasn't quite well either. And as for help, they could, but he didn't want them to. It was easier to just ignore them. And that's what he did.

As soon as Molly disappeared back into the crowd of chattering people, another emerged. He looked so familiar, yet he had no idea who the tall suited man was. He was dressed far more elegantly than anyone else at the party, his mask covered in intricate swirls and designs, molded against his angular features perfectly. Not that he noticed any of that, of course.

"Hello John."

And his voice. It was soothing and deep, far too familiar… no. It couldn't be.

"S-Sherlock?" His breathing went ragged, angry and betrayed, hesitant of whether to continue speaking in hopes he would get some kind of answer to all the questions rapidly sweeping through his mind, but his mouth went dry and his lips refused to form words, all he could feel were those long skinny fingers resting on his shoulder so comfortably.

"Would you care to dance?" The lips beneath the taller man's mask flickered with a quick smirk as his hand glided down John's shaking arm, fingers creeping into the spaces between his own and tugging him away from the corner he had been so expertly sunken into. Suddenly he didn't want to hide from the pain he had pushed so deep, it welled up in him, stirring his mind. Punch him. Hug him. Kiss him. Talk. Speak. Apologize. Yell. He had to do something. Yet the strong arms were still pulling him and the people around them were smiling and the music was so hauntingly beautiful that he just kept following Sherlock just as he always had.

The violins' deep sound echoed around them as Sherlock's hands moved to his waist, body shifting closer to him as John's immediately followed suit until they were mere inches apart. He could feel the brunette's warm breath steadily against his cheeks, his own heartbeat evening out to meet Sherlock's. They began to spin, slowly and in rhythm with the rapidly increasing tempo, feet brushing past each other gently in reassurances that they were really there. That this wasn't just some dream.

Sherlock released him, spinning him around once with a haunting laugh whizzing past his ear, his own deep chuckle escaping him. The room was spinning and Sherlock's eyes looked oh so beautiful beneath the layers of finely sculpted mask and those lips looked so inviting twisted up in that smirk of his, and his mind was rushing and the music was slowing down and he never wanted it to end.

His hands crept up to the other man's neck, locking around them as he leaned upwards, hesitating for a moment, eyes locked, before finally pressing his lips to his, the music fading out the claps sounding in the air along with scattered gasps. Sherlock pulled back in surprise, before returning, smooth lips gliding so gently against his own, body still swaying in motion with the echoes of a long since forgotten song.

By the time he pulled away a new song had started, a cheery tune sounding about the room, yet all was still. Molly was still, staring at John with shock, gaze flickering between the two. Lestrade was still, biting his lip and looking around hesitantly at anything other than the two. Mycroft was still, lips pressed tight in anger or relief, it never really was that obvious with him, umbrella tapping rapidly against the glittering floors. Even Anderson was still, mouth open wide in shock and eyes trained towards the floor. No one even dared move. Except Sherlock.

Once again their hands were intertwined, pulling him away. Away from all the noise and distractions. They made their way out the door, bursting into the dark night, sky dotted with barely visible stars. Still, no one said a word.

John's spare hand reached up to Sherlock's face, fingers dancing over his skin before grabbing the mask and tugging it lightly, pulling the thing away from his face. And sure enough, he was there. Smiling down at him, eyes so sad and knowing in ways John knew his never would be.

"Sherlock…"

"John."

Sherlock's eyes were brimming with tears, squeezing shut as he took in a deep breath.

"Stop. Don't cry. This is good. You're back. You're here." John spouted out words, desperate for Sherlock to agree, to smile, and to say it was all going to be alright.

"You're alive." He added, his own eyes now wet with tears.

"No… I'm not…"

John stopped, breathing picking up, his cool breath coming out in short puffs of air now visible in the cool night air.

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock, you're right here!" His voice grew louder, breaking as he spoke.

"I just needed to say goodbye…"

Suddenly his hands were clutching for cool fingers that weren't there, his tears now falling into empty space, and the warm arms he felt around him offered no comfort, knowing it was all but a ghost. A ghost of what had been.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

And John Watson knew… he would never really be whole again.


End file.
